Who fancied what a pretty sight
This Rock would be if edged around
With living snow—drops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this orchard—ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set
Upon its head this coronet?
Was it the humour of a child?
Or rather of some gentle maid,
Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The shepherd—queen, were thus arrayed?
Of man mature, or matron sage?
Or old man toying with his age!
I asked—’twas whispered; The device
To each and all might well belong:
It is the Spirit of Paradise
That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,
That gives to all the self—same bent
Where life is wise and innocent.